Watching Over You

by Sherratt, Mel

  She trod carefully along the landing, creaking floorboards underneath the carpet betraying her every step; she moved forward to the front room, where she always saw Jean sitting. Slowly, she pushed open the door.

  Jean was sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘Hello, Ella,’ she said softly.

  ‘So this is where you do your thing?’ Ella pointed a finger and made a circling notion. ‘Where you nosy at us from the window. Do you get your kicks out of it?’

  ‘I don’t watch. I just…’ Jean faltered.

  She’s a freak.

  ‘She is!’ Ella clapped her hands like an excited child. ‘You’re a freak! Watching people is perverted.’ She stepped into the room. ‘I suppose you think what I do is perverted too.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘But you’ve been sent to spy on me, haven’t you? Who do you work for?’

  Jean shook her head. ‘I don’t work for anyone. I retired a few years back now.’

  She must work for someone. She’s a spy.

  Ella walked around the room, touching the chair, inspecting a painting on the wall, all the time keeping an eye out for Jean to move. She noted Jean’s empty mug, the dregs of a drink still inside it; a knitting pattern, the circles of blue ink where she’d marked out the stitches that corresponded with her size.

  Then her eyes fell upon a notepad ledged on the windowsill.

  ‘What’s that?’ She turned to Jean quickly.

  ‘Nothing,’ Jean replied.

  Ella picked it up, flicked through it, taking time to read each page that had been filled so far. When she got to the last entry, she began to read aloud.

  ‘19:33: Charley’s man arrived.

  ‘17:35: Charley home from work.

  ‘11:55: woman in red car RB 59 DUC arrived and went into the house with Ella. But I’m sure I heard the woman refer to Ella as Cassie.’

  Ella closed her eyes for a moment and pinched the bridge of her nose. There was that name again.

  I told you she was a spy.

  ‘You’ve been writing everything down.’ Ella spoke matter-of-factly.

  ‘Yes. I’ve been so lonely since my husband died. It’s a hobby, something I do to while away the time. I don’t mean any harm by it, but I’m housebound, you see. I have osteoporosis and it’s hard to move around. I’d love to get out in the garden more often but I –’

  ‘Since when?’ Ella interrupted.

  ‘Oh, a few years now. I was diagnosed –’

  ‘Not the fucking osteo – how long have you been writing things UP?’

  Jean paused, her eyes momentarily flicking to the rest of the notepads, stacked up neatly in the corner of the room. She averted them quickly, but it was too late. Ella stepped towards them.

  ‘I’ll be in every one of these, won’t I?’

  ‘No, they go back a lot longer than that!’

  Ella snorted. ‘You sound as if you’re proud of the fact.’

  ‘I meant that I don’t just note down what you do. I note down what everyone does.’

  She’s mad too!

  ‘Why?’ said Ella.

  Jean sighed. ‘For no other reason than for something to do. My life is so monotonous now.’

  Ella felt as if her head was ready to explode. Her eyes hurt from staring but she couldn’t believe what she saw. If she went into as much detail here as in the last three entries she’d read, Jean would have recorded her every move. If the police were to get hold of the notebooks, there could be evidence of her coming back from attacking Brendan. She wouldn’t have an alibi. It could ruin everything, unless she was quick.

  Get rid of the evidence.

  ‘No one needs to see them,’ Jean added.

  Ella nodded, remaining silent. Then she picked up the top notepad and tore out a few pages. She screwed them up and slung them to the floor; ripped out a few more.

  ‘Wait!’ Jean protested, slowly getting to her feet, her arms outstretched. ‘I promise you I won’t show anyone anything but please, don’t rip them up. They’re all I have.’

  Ella turned quickly and brought the back of her hand across Jean’s face. The force of it caused Jean to lose her balance and she fell to the floor, landing awkwardly on her knee. Her foot slipped underneath her as she tried to get up again, struggling to take any weight. Reaching up to the mattress, she strained to hoist herself up but it was no use. Jean’s knee gave way once more and she cried out in pain.

  Ella moved closer to Jean, placing her hands on her knees and bending to her level.

  Cry baby.

  ‘Jean,’ she spoke softly. ‘Why are you spying on me?’

  Disorientated, Jean didn’t reply.

  ‘Come on, let’s get you up to your feet.’ Ella held out her hand. ‘You can’t stay down there all night.’

  Jean clasped onto it but before Ella could react, she had pushed up the sleeve of her jumper. Ella let go of Jean’s hand and pulled it down again quickly, but not before catching the look of recognition on her face.

  ‘It is you,’ Jean cried. ‘Oh, Cassie, what did they do to you?’

  Ella stepped away, slapping at her cheeks.

  Cassie, Cassie, Cassie. She’s saying your name again. How does she know you?

  She pointed at Jean. ‘How do you know my name? Has someone been talking about me? I knew it. All the neighbours know who I am, don’t they? You’re all in this together. Every one of you – you, and Jake and Charley. You’re all out to get me, aren’t you? HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?’

  ‘Because I tended to that burn!’ Jean shouted. ‘I held you in my arms as you cried afterwards. I tried to comfort you. Those little bastards got away with it. I couldn’t do anything to protect you.’

  Ella roared like an animal in pain at the sound of Jean’s words, flicking back in time, recalling a woman at the home who was kind to her, who always told the other kids to back away. The woman who stopped her from drowning Billie when she was twelve years old.

  ‘You!’ she whispered loudly.

  She left you there.

  Jean nodded, tears welling in her eyes. ‘I – I looked after you while you were in Ravenside Children’s Home.’

  ‘You didn’t look after me. You left me there to rot!’

  ‘No, I didn’t! You have to believe me. I tried to tell Malcolm, make him understand what was happening, but he told me to keep my mouth shut. And when I threatened to expose him and his staff, he…he fired me.’

  At the mention of Malcolm, Ella flinched. She dragged an image from the back of her mind of a man who used children as punch bags to rid himself of his own demons. A man who took his frustration out on youngsters who couldn’t defend themselves. A man who she knew took immense pleasure from the power of his position.

  ‘Have you ANY idea what happened to me after you left me in the hands of that…that fucking monster?’ she screamed.

  ‘No one would listen to me when I was there! I was sacked because I was interfering.’ Jean was crying now. ‘I wouldn’t let it rest so Malcolm had to silence me some way. He said if I continued with my complaint that he would see to it that I was tarnished – say that I had been found abusing one of the children.’ A sob caught in her throat. ‘I’ve never hurt a child in my life. You remember that, don’t you? I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.’

  ‘You still left me to rot.’

  She left you there!

  ‘There was nothing I could do. I reported him while I worked there but they finished me. I reported him again, to the local council. There was an investigation but everything was covered up. I never saw you again until you moved in across the road.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you knew me?’

  ‘Because I didn’t know!’

  She’s lying.

  ‘Liar!’

  ‘Until I heard that woman shouting
Cassie, I hadn’t thought of you in a long time.’

  ‘That’s rather nice of you!’

  Jean screwed up her face in anguish. ‘It doesn’t mean that I never think of you. I often wondered how you were.’

  ‘How fucked up they had made me?’

  ‘No…I don’t know.’

  ‘Ah, but you do know,’ Ella put her hands on her hips and glared, ‘because you see everything that goes on in this street.’

  ‘From a distance! You had blonde hair as a child…and I last saw you when you were fifteen. We’ve both changed in that time. And I’ve never been able to see your scar. I would have known then. I would have remembered the little girl who needed my help. The beautiful little girl that I let down.’ Jean’s shoulders dropped and she began to cry. ‘I couldn’t help you. I should have fought more for you, and the other children. It was a terrible place for a child to be, especially one who was torn by grief like you. I’m so sorry.’

  It’s all her fault.

  Ella shook her head fervently. Somewhere in the past minute or so, Jean’s face had morphed into Billie’s. All she could think about was how that bitch had tortured her, beaten her, bullied her. She pictured her sitting here at her feet, a young girl kneeling by the side of the bed almost as if in prayer, begging for forgiveness.

  She hates you.

  ‘You never liked me!’ she shouted.

  ‘That’s not true!’ said Jean.

  ‘I could pull your teeth out with pliers, rip out your nails one by one, and it wouldn’t be half as much agony as you caused me. You made my life hell!’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Ella, you have me mixed up with someone else. I –’

  ‘Shut up.’ Ella drew back her fist and punched Jean. She pushed her backwards so that she was flat on the floor, straddled her chest and punched her again.

  ‘Please!’ Jean coughed, spitting out blood. ‘Stop.’

  Do it!

  Ella’s hands slipped around Jean’s throat. All the time, she could see Billie, knew that the only way she could get rid of her resentment was to squeeze the breath out of the bitch. Yes, she was in control and it felt good, knowing that Billie would never hurt her again.

  ‘I hate you,’ she whispered, before squeezing harder.

  Jean’s arms flailed as she fought with the pressure applied to her neck. All she could see was Ella’s face, her demonic eyes, her angry expression. She couldn’t get her breath; it hurt to even try. The blood rushed to her head, almost making her oblivious to the pain in her knee. Her eyes began to water, her vision becoming dim around the outside as it slowly ebbed away. When she could struggle no more, her arms dropped to her sides. She took one last look across the room, over at the window, the chair, her knitting.

  She would never be able to finish her snazzy purple cardigan now.

  I was ten when the accident happened. That’s what I was told to say. By the adults. Malcolm told me if I said any different, he’d lock me in the room with Billie and leave her to her own means. He knew that Billie bullied me. I supposed it saved him a job – one child less to thump.

  Us kids were playing in the garden after school. It was a September day and I was sitting under the tree at the bottom of the garden, away from the others. I had my nose in a book, as usual. So I didn’t hear anyone coming near. When I did look up, Billie was in front of me with Mikey, one of the younger boys. He had a yellow canister in his hands.

  ‘Go on, do it,’ said Billie, pushing Mikey forward.

  He stepped back. I could see the fear in his eyes. He was pleading with me to run away but I was too scared to move.

  Billy pushed him forward again. ‘Do it, or I’ll kick your head in.’

  Mikey looked at me with dismay. Then he squirted the liquid over my arm. At the time, I didn’t know that it was gas. How would I? I was ten years old. Before I could move away, Billie lit a match and threw it at me.

  The liquid lit up and in seconds, the shiny polyester material of my cheap tracksuit top was a ball of flames. My arm was on fire!

  Mikey yelled and ran away but Billie stood and stared. If it wasn’t for the quick reaction of a new lady assistant, I’m not sure what would have happened to me. She came running over, pulled off her coat, and doused out the flame. Then she picked me up in her arms, took me back into the house, and called an ambulance before anyone could stop her.

  I can still recall the smell of my skin singeing as the material stuck to it.

  I can still remember my screams.

  I can still remember the pain.

  I had to have five operations to repair it, and skin taken from my thigh to put over it, the wound was so deep. It left most of my wrist and forearm burned and shrivelled away, twisted and bumpy, like the material of the jacket had seeped into my skin. The redness has faded over the years, changed to candy-floss pink, but I keep it covered anyway. I hate having it on show. It reminds me of a time when I was vulnerable.

  I’m not vulnerable anymore.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Charley hadn’t heard a sound from the flat for a while. She wondered where Ella was, what she was doing, all the time trying not to think that anything terrible had happened to Aaron. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been trapped but she did know he would have arrived by now. An hour must have passed, probably more.

  Once Ella came back, she was going to try and talk to her again. Persuading: she did it all the time for her job. Coercing frightened women to stand up for themselves was part of her role, even when she knew that if she’d been in their situation she would never press charges either.

  Maybe if she could get Ella to offload, make her feel empathized with, she might let her out. Then she could make a run for it.

  Feeling calmer for now, she sat still. If it took her all night, hell, what did she have to lose?

  She would get out of this closet.

  Ella stood in the middle of Jean’s room, clenching and unclenching her fists.

  How the hell did she find you? She couldn’t have known about you. It’s too much of a coincidence. And who else knows? Does everyone know about you?

  She stopped for a moment and looked across at her house, the front door left wide open in her hurry to get across to Jean.

  It’s all her fault – that Charley.

  Ella nodded slowly. ‘If she hadn’t come along and poked her nose in my business, none of this would have happened. She deserves to be locked in that closet. Until she can be a good girl, she’s going nowhere. I won’t feed her and I won’t let her out. No one knows she’s there. I can do this as long as I want. I can keep this game up forever.’

  She stepped over Jean’s body, glancing at it briefly.

  ‘Why did you have to fuck my life up? What did I do? I wasn’t naughty yet I was punished every day. And now look what you made me do. I hurt Aaron and I killed Billie. It’s your fault.’

  But just as quickly, her jumbled thoughts changed direction. Dropping to her knees, seeing not Billie but Jean’s face again, distorted by fear, eyes staring widely ahead, she froze. Had she killed her?

  She touched her face, gently. She was warm.

  She’s dead!

  ‘No.’

  Was she still breathing? Ella wasn’t sure.

  ‘I’m in so much trouble.’ Then she frowned, looked around the room. Where the fuck was Billie?

  She turned to the door quickly. ‘I have to get out of here.’

  In the quiet of the closet, Charley’s heart began to boom when a door slammed shut. Then, footsteps. There was someone inside the flat. She stood up, pressed her ear to the door, praying it wasn’t her imagination.

  ‘Ella?’ She knocked on the door. ‘Aaron! Who’s there? Please let me out.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  Charley’s eyes welled with tears at the sound of
Ella’s voice. She didn’t want it to be Ella. She wanted it to be Aaron. Why hadn’t he come to get her out?

  She knocked on the door again. ‘Ella, please. I need to pee.’

  ‘Piss in the closet.’

  ‘I can’t do that. Please let me out and then we can talk again. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘You never wanted to talk to me after you started seeing lover boy.’

  Charley held in a sob as she thought of Aaron again. Keep cool, she told herself.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. But we can talk now.’

  ‘Like we have all the time in the world?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m busy.’

  ‘Two minutes! You can spare me that much time, surely.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She gave in far too quickly for Charley’s liking but, now she had her attention, she didn’t know what to say, or even where to start. But Ella filled in her silence.

  ‘You’re a support worker, right?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘What exactly do you do for your job?’

  ‘I help people, talk to them and listen to their problems. If I can get someone else to assist them, I do that too. Otherwise, I encourage them to help themselves.’

  ‘Maybe I could have got better if you had been my support worker, like you rallied round that woman, that Margaret Owen.’

  Charley’s brow furrowed. How did she know one of her clients?

  ‘I followed you there. I saw you talking on her doorstep.’

  Charley shuddered, goose-bumps rising over her skin. The last time she had seen Margaret Owen was just before she was due in court as a witness. That had been eight weeks ago, not long after she had moved in. Christ, had Ella been following her all that time?

  No, she couldn’t have. She must be bluffing.

  But the Ella she was dealing with wasn’t rational; she was quite capable of doing something like that.

  ‘If you were a proper support worker, you would have helped me anyway,’ Ella continued. ‘You would have listened to me, and not gone off at the first sniff of a man. You should have been there for me too.’